The sun rose slowly, shining pale light over the mountain trail. Hei stretched and rolled up his blanket, careful not to disturb the small fire the Wanderer had left behind. The Wanderer was already gone, leaving only the scent of smoke and roasted meat lingering in the air.
Hei tucked the letter into his pack and breathed the crisp dawn air. The mountains stretched endlessly before him, glowing with the first warmth of sunlight. Excitement and uncertainty twisted in his chest.
The Wanderer's words echoed in his mind: "There's someone you should meet next. A farmer, living simply, but perhaps richer than anyone you'll ever know."
Hei followed a narrow path that wound downward, crossing streams and patches of wildflowers. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that the Wanderer's fire and meat were behind him now. Yet the thought of discovering something new, something more, pushed him onward.
Hours passed, the sun climbing higher and touching Hei's face gently, like the embrace of a mother. Hei paused at a gentle slope, catching sight of smoke curling lazily from a distant homestead. The land was dotted with fields of golden wheat and small gardens, tended carefully, almost lovingly. A few farmhands moved slowly, their faces calm, their work steady.
He walked along the dirt road, golden wheat swaying on either side. Now and then, the laughter of children echoed across the fields, mingling with the steady rhythm of men and women tending their crops.
At the end of the road stood a small, solitary home.
A thatched roof, hand-hewn walls — nothing remarkable, yet it radiated a quiet warmth that drew Hei closer.
As he neared, a calm voice called out.
"Hello, child. What brings you here?"
A farmer stepped into view, his face creased by years of sun but softened by a gentle smile.
"A nameless wanderer sent me," Hei answered, bowing slightly. "He said you could help me understand the good life."
The farmer's smile deepened, kind yet unreadable. "I see. Then come inside. I still have a bit of work to finish."
"Thank you."
Hei stepped into the house. Its interior, like its walls, was humble — yet every detail spoke of care. The faint scent of baked bread lingered in the air, mixed with the earthy fragrance of soil. This was not a place shaped by wealth, but by hands that had chosen to stay.
He sank into a modest chair. Through a small wooden frame he saw the farmer working in the fading light, his rake scraping gently across the soil. The labor was hard, even cruel in its demand — yet the farmer's movements were calm, steady, almost graceful, as if toil itself had become second nature.
Beside him, a woman watched over children darting through the fields. Her smile was warm, her laughter bright, and the children's giggles echoed across the golden wheat.
"Careful now! Don't trample the crops!" she called, half stern, half playful.
Hei didn't know how long he sat there. He had grown up without parents, without a home like this. To see love so freely given felt strange and heavy in his chest — like glimpsing something he'd always missed without knowing.
The sun dipped lower, casting amber across the land. The farmer finally set down his rake with a satisfied sigh.
"Alright, that's enough. Let's eat!" he called to the children and his wife.
Only then did he notice Hei sitting by the window. His face lit up with embarrassment.
"Oh! Forgive me — I completely forgot you were waiting. Won't you stay for supper? There's always room for one more at our table."
Hei smiled. "No problem. I will gladly take the supper."
Dinner ended. The children's laughter trailed upstairs, leaving the house hushed, save for the faint whistle of wind against the roof.
Only Hei and the farmer remained at the table, the faint glow of the hearth painting their faces in amber. The farmer leaned back, resting his rough hands on his knees, his smile easy but his eyes thoughtful.
"So, kid," he said, breaking the silence, "what is it you're hoping to know?"
Hei stared into his empty bowl, fingers tightening around the wooden spoon.
"…The good life. Everyone talks about it like it's out there, waiting to be found. But I don't know if it's something I could ever have."
The farmer studied him quietly, then gave a low chuckle. "I asked the same question when I was your age. Back then, I thought the good life was in gold, or titles, or people praising my name. I chased it until I was worn down to nothing."
Hei glanced up, eyes narrowing. "And did you find it?"
The farmer's gaze drifted toward the stairs, where faint giggles still echoed through the wood. His smile softened. "Not at first. I grew up with no parents — no one to guide me, no one to catch me when I fell. Some where along the way I wished to start a family and give them the warmth I never had."
The farmer's scarred hands folded together.
"So I stopped chasing what I thought the world owed me. I built a home. I tilled the earth. I chose to stay. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wishing I'd lived differently. That's the closest thing I've found to a good life."
Hei fell into thought, the words sinking deeper than he expected.
"How do I find my own path?" he asked quietly.
"There isn't a single 'good path,'" the farmer replied. "Each one has its beauty… and its thorns. I'd say — live the one you won't regret."
Hei's throat tightened.
"…But what if you already regret too much? What if you're born with nothing, and everything you've lost is already carved into you?"
The farmer didn't flinch at the sharpness in his tone. He leaned forward slightly, the faint creak of the chair the only sound between them.
"Then you learn to stop adding more," he said softly. "You can't change the regrets behind you. But every step forward, every choice you make — those are still yours to shape. Carrying the past is heavy enough. Don't make it heavier."
He reached for his cup, smiling faintly. Hei didn't respond.
He only stared at the quiet home — at the walls filled with the warmth of a family that wasn't his — and felt the ache of a life that would never belong to him.